


To Mine Own Death Do I Walk

by Gattoartico



Series: Gatto’s Oneshot Shop of Horrors [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Welsh Mythology
Genre: Arawn do be giving that cosmic horror vibes my doods, Butchering Welsh Mythology, Can you tell?, Gen, I promise this will not be the only thing I’m known for on here, I swear, I’m not in a mood to give him better, Mythology - Freeform, Mythology References, Regulus is my favorite and he deserved better, Ychydig Meistr verse, attempted character study, but subtly, clearly I failed somewhat, eldritch vibes, first work on here, maybe my next project will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:35:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29216550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gattoartico/pseuds/Gattoartico
Summary: Regulus Black has discovered the Horcrux and the truth of the Dark Lord.
Series: Gatto’s Oneshot Shop of Horrors [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2145099
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	To Mine Own Death Do I Walk

Regulus took a deep breath and let it out in a series of shuddering gasps. His fingers clutched the aged marble sink hard enough his knuckles had gone white. He could feel the smooth coldness of the mirror against his forehead as he stood there. A turmoil of dark thoughts rolled in his head and roiled in his stomach. He knew what he had to do but it scared him, oh how much it scared him. Even here in Grimmauld Place, so far from his destination he could feel the chilling fingers of death lightly grasping at his robes. The feel of eternity brushing against his skin without even a whisper. 

For Regulus Black was merely a boy of nineteen, thrust into a war much too young. He knew where his loyalties were to belong since the hour of his birth. Yet he finds himself here all the same. The confliction of his desires and the ideals espoused to him since infancy. He was a boy that couldn’t stand the sight of blood, who threw up when faced with viscera, the boy that killed with unfeeling precision. A boy still teetering on the cusp of manhood, raised to believe in his own superiority and privilege, who had pledged himself to a master that promised a return of the Old Ways, a restoration of the inherent power of blood. He was a boy coming to terms with a bitter truth. That everything he had been taught, everything his family had fought for, everything he had killed for, was nothing but a poorly crafted lie. Centuries of belief, torn to shreds and left fluttering in the breeze. He imagined he could taste ash upon his tongue, the ash of dogma burned beyond the hope of repair in the fires of War and Revolution. He was a boy that now had to face a decision that would have brought better men than he to their knees. 

Would he turn his back on everything he believed, or forge for himself a new road, rise from the ruins of faith like a phoenix reborn? For in truth that is what the mark upon his arm was. It did not serve as the mark of a soldier, rather the mark of the devout. The mark of the faithful willing to die for a god that did not care for them. The black skull and snake mocked him from pale flesh. Their poisonous words dripped the venomous cocktail of desperation, despair, self-doubt, and an all encompassing loathing of the world it found itself within. It had seized upon his every demon and dragged them into the light. Fittingly enough they all spoke with his mother’s voice.

Her shriek in his skull was painful, berating him for his many shortcomings and failures. Every time he failed to please her, every moment he did not exceed her already insurmountable expectations. His darkest thoughts came out to play together, to drag him down in his final hours. 

Yet, Regulus did not crumble. He stood there, hot tears of shame and hate dripping down his face. He straightened his back and stood tall. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He opened his eyes and looked into the mirror. Within it he saw a scared little boy that hid in his closet while his mother cursed his brother. A cowardly child that chose to put up no fight and give in. A weakling that couldn’t even build the courage to follow his brother to safety. 

No.

No, that is not who he is. It is not who he will be.

He blinked and looked again.

This time he saw himself for what he was. A young man with a determination set in a jaw of stone. Pale alabaster smudged with darkness from a lack of sleep. His eyes were no longer dull and scared. Instead their silvery depths were storm hardened and thunderous. There was a finality to this all. For in this moment he was no less than a mortal man, yet he seemed as if a great hero of legend stood in his place. Time seemed to freeze as the world held its breath. 

He studied his own face. There just under his left ear, the faintest scar of a childhood prank gone wrong. One that led to him neary cracking his skull open on the banister. He could see the marks of a life wrought in suffering, one forged in travesty. He took another breath. As he breathed out he felt all his doubts and second thoughts flee upon that gentle stirring of air. He let go of the counter and stepped away from it. The quiet click of his heels upon the tile followed by the hardwood. He strode into his room. From the back of his desk chair he took up his jacket. It was a dark green, in a style that seemed more suited for a funeral over battle. He smiled grimly as he put it on. He knew there would be no funeral for his body, no final rights for one such as he. From his desk he picked up a thick volume, its pages worn and stuffed with extra sheets of parchment. His personal journal, every spell he’d created, every scrap of research he had conducted held within. 

Regulus turned and placed it onto the shelf among all his school books. A flicker of movement brought his eyes to the only other occupant in his room. Seated upon the large bed, the mostly opaque individual made no crease or dip in the richness of the silk sheets or heavy duvet. The other blinked owlishly at Regulus. Its clothes a millennium out of date, a cloak of a white pelt on its shoulders. The clothes rested upon a slim frame that seemed at times disproportionate. Eyes that served as gateways to twin swirling orange abysses of flame. A grin too sharp, too full of teeth to be human. It propped its chin in its hand and watched Regulus. 

“You will not return from this.” It said, the words almost incomprehensible yet startlingly clear within the clamor of sound, the rattling of chains, the scrape of nails on a chalkboard, the wisp of an eye blinking.

“I know.”

The creature studied Regulus for a few moments longer. Its grin slowly slid away until a small frown made itself known. “You do not know what will occur after.” It spoke in a crash of thunder, a kittens mew, a serpentine hiss. “Your bones will moulder in that lake with the dead that came before.” The rumble of stone, the sigh of a storm wind, the rasp of fingers on wood.

Regulus nodded, a resignation in his eyes, a firmness in his stance. “At least I will die knowing I did something good in the end.”

A tilt of the head, “Your name will not be remembered.” The brush of smoke in still air, the rustle of pages turning, the chattering of locusts enmasse.

A wry smile appeared on Regulus’ face. “A fitting end to the once proud Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.”

“Your soul will be mine.” The rattle of windows in rain, the crisp crunch of fall leaves, the crack of gunfire.

Regulus shrugged as he picked up the false locket from his desk. “It would have been yours in the end regardless Arawn. I’m simply handing it over early.”

Arawn studied Regulus for a little longer. “I will await your soul at the gates of Annwn myself.” The bellow of an erupting volcano, the cacophony of slaughter, the pounding of artillery. “No greater honor for those who are dead.” The whimper of a wolf, the silver lie of a politician's tongue, the sound made between the stars. The ancient entity brought a finger to its lips and vanished in the space between heartbeats. Nothing left to show that it had been there save the scent of forests after rain, of woodsmoke and wet rock.

Regulus shuddered slightly. The arcane god had always kept him on edge in its presence. For it exuded comfort cut through with ancient rage and primal danger. It did not belong in this world, a fact both Regulus and Arawn knew. He shook his head and pocketed the locket. “Kreacher! It’s time.”

With a pop the wrinkled old house elf appeared, he reached up to take his young Master’s hand for perhaps the final time. With another pop they vanished. 

A few motes of dust startled by the apparition soon settled. The room now empty and devoid of life. A snapshot of the young man that once lived within it, never to return.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I wrote this in a half hour. It was originally intended to be a Character Study of Regulus but an oc of mine said no and waltzed himself into it. This version has been edited to swap all of the references to that oc with Arawn.
> 
> I have an obsession with working Welsh mythology into HP and I freely admit this.
> 
> In other news, I do have other works chilling in my google drive that I’ll post eventually. Got several more HP ones and a few My Hero Academia ones as well. Just gotta catch the muse long enough to finish those works.
> 
> Anyway, that’s all for today. Hope I did a decent job on this wheeeeeeeeeee.


End file.
